


Hinge

by doublejoint



Category: One Piece
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29010930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: Things can be both trite and true.
Relationships: Smoker/Trafalgar D. Water Law
Kudos: 20





	Hinge

The contradiction of being with someone like Law is not lost to Smoker, and nor is the same contradiction lost to Law. They never would have made it this far (as much as it can be called “far” in any sense) if it were, to either of them, but if they didn’t think on tracks that were in some sense of parallel there never would have been enough mutual interest for them to do anything at all. Parallel is perhaps not the right word, but if there are really infinite dimensions then on some planar level Smoker and Law have to be parallel. But thinking about shapes he can’t see has always seemed pretty pointless to Smoker, especially when it’s got nothing directly to do with any of this. Which is to say, neither of them is pretty conventional, and though they’re not necessarily like that in the same ways, they are in the ways it counts. They’re not trying to stick out, but they’ll use it as a means to an end; they’ll bend and stretch things, twist them to find the best route; they are the way they are and that lets them get away with a little more on the side. It’s not the way things ought to work, perhaps, but it’s the way they do work, and those two things in opposition held together by a hinge that swings them closer and farther apart.

(There are some Marines who believe that shutting the hinge is the goal of the organization, and maybe that’s what some of the higher-ups ought to be, but the hinge is too warped for that right now, at least from Smoker’s point of view and he’s got good vision. Doubtless, there are some pirates attempting to mold the world to fit their desires; Smoker could certainly name a few, but Law’s not one of them. He might try to slam the hinge on someone’s fingers, but that, again, is not necessarily relevant.)

To reduce either of them to a list of traits would be stupid, anyway; Smoker’s walked out on too many mandated personality assessments to pretend otherwise. Law is his lack of convention as a pirate, yes; he’s also the twist of a smirk, sinewy feet pushing into a mattress, hands shoved deep in pockets, looking up at Smoker from an angle that makes the circles under his eyes disappear. Law the man is all of those things, and it’s trite to say more, and Smoker wouldn’t be able to say it out loud, teeth gripping his cigars too firmly, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

Smoker finishes the last section of the newspaper, glances at the real estate listings in small print on the very last page, but doesn’t bother to look. What’s he going to do with a house, anyway? Law doesn’t look up from the book he’s reading when Smoker folds the paper and stacks it on the nightstand, on the other side of his coffee cup. He sticks two fresh cigars in his mouth, strikes a match, and that sizzle makes Law look up. He watches as Smoker inhales, exhales smoke, but says nothing.

“I’m surprised you haven’t told me to quit,” Smoker says.

Law shrugs. “You’re made of smoke. I doubt smoking affects you in the same way as it would a normal person. And you’re not my patient.”

A pause. Smoker waits.

“Unless you’d like to be?”

There’s a flicker of--something--in his eyes, and Smoker swallows back the innuendo stupidly rising to his mouth. No need to inject unnecessary levity, though there’s also no need to talk about medical ethics, though all of that is breached all the time by marines and pirates alike. Doubtless Law’s had to operate quite seriously on friends and colleagues, and Smoker knows his own medics all too well outside of the clinic. Smoker might not need the benefits of a doctor with as comprehensive a suite of medical knowledge as Law, might not have any reason to trust Law as far as he can reach in a professional capacity, and yet the denial doesn’t come nearly as easily as the joke. Instead, he sighs, taking another drag on his cigars, and then speaks.

“No thanks.”

Law’s face returns to his book, folding down the corner of the page to turn it before he could have even finished the first paragraph. Smoker stretches out his arm and drops it over Law’s shoulders, his hand encircling Law’s bicep. Law tilts the page toward him. It seems to be fiction, or some kind of creative nonfiction, judging by the prose; without context Smoker can’t really appreciate the writing on its own. He has books of his own, and work, at the edge of the nightstand, and he can always distract Law again, but for now he’ll read over Law’s shoulder, at a pace slow enough to miss the last few paragraphs on every page.

“You’re going too fast,” says Smoker.

“I’ll lend it to you when I’m done,” says Law.

Smoker prods Law’s rib with his thumb; Law ignores it and, again, turns the page. Until he’s done with it, Smoker can fill in the spaces in his own mind, anyway; there’s enough context. Maybe he’ll turn out to be wrong when he actually reads it, but he’ll probably have forgotten most of what he’s making up by then. 

Law reaches the end of the chapter, dog-ears the page, and closes the book in his lap. “More coffee?”

Smoker glances over at his mostly-empty cup. “Yes, please.”

When Law goes into the next room, Smoker can still see him through the open doorway, the tattoo on his back, how low his pants ride on his hips, his heels barely peeking out from the bottom of the hems, the angles of his elbows, a mug in each hand. Smoker sends out a wisp of his own smoke, extending beyond where the smoke from his cigar dissipates in the air; it meets Law just as he’s turning back, hovers over the steam from the mugs and then pulls at his belt loop. Law smiles, not a smirk or a tight line that means he’s taken the upper hand in something or other, but loose and easy, and Smoker knows he’s staring, but he figures he ought to be allowed to.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
